More Than a Week
by elan0rjoy
Summary: Mary and Bash were gone for more than a week before Henry's men found them near Calais, and as the show sort of skims over the events that occur during that period of time, even though Mary has a lot to deal with emotionally, I wanted to fill in the gaps with a chapter for every night that they were gone. Mash.
1. Night One

**Author's Note: **I do not own _Reign_ or the characters therein. Also, just so you're all aware, I'm not usually one to write multi-chaptered stories. That being said, this idea has been _plaguing _ me for days and I'm going to give it a shot.

_Night One, or, Planning and Playacting _

His mind was still reeling. As if his mother's murderous and treasonous legitimization attempt wasn't enough, now he found himself a willing companion to the Queen of Scotland as she ran away from his brother _on their wedding day_. The gravity of the situation hits him like a ton of bricks every now and then, and it is only his strong will to live that keeps him seated on his horse when panic knocks the air out of his lungs. He is willing to die for Mary's sake, and he's proven this much already, but the idea of facing his father's wrath and Francis' combined does not strike him with anything remotely close to comfort.

His plan had been to remain inconspicuous, to lay low and wait for his mother to smooth things over with his father. But that was before Mary. Now they will surely be pursued, for the King will not willingly lose England, nor will his brother willing let his fiancee go. Two sets of tracks for them to follow. He won't be able to run as far or as fast now. Trying to calculate the logistics of traveling with a conspicuously lovely, undoubtedly delicate, and obscenely rich girl while trying to lay low make his head ache.

Though, looking back on their day, it wasn't as though traveling with her was much of a hardship; she was strong and capable and had determination to make up when her endurance failed her. He'd rode them hard, covering as much ground as possible, knowing that it could mean the difference between life and death later on, and she'd not said a word in protest. In fact, she had been uncharacteristically silent the whole day, her mouth set in a grim line, spurring her horse ahead of him the two times he'd tried to ask her questions.

These questions are what makes his mind spin the most. Was she alright? Why hadn't she turned back when his brother called after her so desperately? Had Francis done something? Was this grief over the death of her friend? Anger? Fear? What was her plan? Was she alright? And on and on, always circling back to whether or not she was alright. And she'd not volunteered any information, not yet.

On the bright side, she hadn't asked what he was running from either. Guilt over his mother's attempt to orchestrate the death of his brothers he could deal with, but Francis had given him a quick summary as to what had happened to Mary when Count Vincent had paid his visit to the castle. He felt sick knowing that his mother had been behind the plot that had forced Mary to be the sacrificial lamb in order to save the castle inhabitants. Lately, his dreams have run wild with the sparse details Francis had shared with him about Mary nearly being raped, about how she'd killed a man with a piece of Italian cutlery. The guilt that she endured these things in order to advance his claim to the French throne is enough to cripple him in his nightmares and in his waking hours alike. He is grateful that he doesn't have to explain his need to flee just yet.

In the midst of these thoughts, he has come up with a plan of sorts. Everyone at Court knew of his mother's connections in Paris, and would naturally suspect him to go there first. His plan is to make as if heading to Paris, and cut back towards Orleans, throwing anyone who might try to find him off the scent. They have stuck to the main roads all day, and when they stop in the prominent town of Evry, he is pleased to see that there is only one inn, makes a show of parading Mary and her bright red cloak down the main avenue to it, pays the stable boy handsomely to look after their horses. He requests the best rooms in the house and orders for a small feast to be prepared just as soon as he and his companion have had a chance to refresh themselves.

Mary doesn't say a word as she follows him through these charades, though he catches her looking incredulous on more than one occasion. He makes a show of leaving her in her room, sheds his cloak and sword in his own, and then quietly makes his way back to hers. He chooses to cross the balustrades that divides her small terrace from his rather than be seen in the hallway.

She has barely had time to remove her cloak when he appears at her window, but he notes, with some amusement, that her riding boots are haphazardly strewn in two different locations across the room. She gives a small shriek of indignation as he slips through her window, but he has crossed the room and pressed a hand over her mouth before she can say a word.

"We need to get our story straight and quickly. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth and we're going to speak very quietly, agreed?" She nods, her eyes very wide. He lifts his hand and leads her to sit on the edge of her bed.

"I don't know why you've chosen to leave Court, but you should know that leaving with me is going to put us both in a bad situation if we're caught."

"Yes, I have had time to consider that. You have no responsibility for me, Bash. You can leave me wherever and whenever you wish. I'll go tonight if you wish."

"No. No matter the danger to me, it would be far more dangerous for a rich, beautiful girl to wander to countryside on her own. I won't allow it. I just need you to understand the risk. Your leaving with me like this, on the day of your wedding...If we're caught I'll likely be hung for treason. You could lose your crown, even be killed with me."

"Bash, I'm so sorry-"

"I have a plan to keep us from being caught, and I think it will work, but I need to know what you intend to do. Should I assume you intend to return to Scotland?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"And the sooner the better, am I right?" She nods and he continues, his mind racing ahead of them, "The closest port town is Calais and they will expect you to go there, no doubt. I may be able to buy us some time by laying a false path for them to follow to Paris. We will have to ride long and hard to get to Calais before my father's men do. It won't be easy and it will likely be very uncomfortable and very dangerous. I have to know, Mary, is whatever you're running from worth this? Are you prepared to do whatever is necessary to get to Scotland?"

She is silent for a moment, then raises her gaze to meet his. "I am. I can never go back to the French court. To do so would mean Francis' death." Her voice is choked with tears, but it is firm and steady, and a grim fire of determination lights her eyes.

"You will have to explain that to me, but not now."

"What now then?"

"Now, we have to go downstairs, eat to excess, act very happy and very much in love, and be very vocal about our plans to leave for Paris in the morning."

"Very much in love?"

"My father, Francis, everyone at Court, will suspect that we have run off to be together. For the time being, that will work in our favor. When we leave this place tomorrow, I want the whole town abuzz with gossip about us."

She nods slowly, her eyes wide. He rises and makes his way to the window. "I'll come back in ten minutes to escort you downstairs?"

"Bash, wait."

He pauses with one leg over the sill "Yes?"

"I never asked you what made you leave, why you are running."

He grimaces at the window frame as he considers that he has traded one deadly problem for another by taking on Mary as a travel companion. But he cannot bring himself to tell her about his mother's ill-advised schemes.

"It doesn't matter now." And without any further explanation, he's out her window and over the balustrade.


	2. Night Two

**Author's Note:** It occurs to me that I have been misleading. My intention for this story was to merely write one night per chapter (because I'm not overly ambitous and this whole multi-chaptered thing is not my cup of tea, see Author's Note/Chapter 1), but I never really stated that. So I changed the summary and hopefully we're a little more clear about _my _intentions, which are definitely not to write a book. Sorry about that. That being said, it occured to me that this decision required leaving out the cutesyness that could have been Mary and Bash pretending to be in love. And I wanted to write that. So I've included it here. And that's that.

_Night Two_ or_ Catharsis_

It has been a vicious day. They started out very early, taking the main road out of Evry, only to turn just outside of Antony and ride hard towards Versailles. It has been dreary and dark, threatening rain the whole day. In spite of this, he decides last minute not to enter the city, instead making a camp in the woods outside of it, explaining to Mary that they are still close enough to Fontainebleau that they would be easily tracked if the King's men chose to interrogate any of the citizens of Versailles. They find a small outcropping of rock that breaks the wind and will give some shelter from the rain when it comes.

Mary has, once again, proved her resilience. She accepts his decision to camp in the woods without question, and immediately sets to caring for their horses while he starts a fire and prepares beds from leaves and pine branches. It is late autumn and he knows this night will be uncomfortable for her, so he does his best to build up a large fire, which takes up most of the space in their natural shelter. The horse's blankets will keep her warm, as will his cloak, if necessary. He bought plenty food for the road in Evry, so there is cold chicken, apples, and good hard bread for her to eat tonight.

The rain holds off long enough for him to build up the fire and collect plenty of wood. The heavy downpour is enough to drive her from the horses and onto one of the pallets he's made. They eat dinner next, both of them so lost in thought that it is a quiet affair, so different from the one they play-acted the night before.

She had played the role of his lover well; clinging to his arm, whispering in his ear, giggling softly at the things he said. He'd never seen her act this way, and knew it was all for show, but a (rather large) part of him enjoyed her attentions anyway. He allowed himself to react to it in a way he never would have otherwise, wrapping an arm around her waist here, touching her hand there. He knew that forevermore, he would look back upon that night and would relish it as the one time he had been able to be with her the way he truly wanted.

They did nothing but speak of Paris. He had described it vividly to her, telling her about all the places he wishes he could take her. At one point, he found that it was not an act, that, in his heart, he longs to show her the cathedrals, the Louvre palace, the Fontaine des Innocents, if only because he knows Paris' beauty will enchant her entirely. She had smiled and asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in what he has to say. It grew harder and harder for him to remember that she didn't mean a word of it.

As they were finishing their meal, a flutist and fiddler began to play brightly. When tables were cleared out of the way and other couples began to dance, he'd felt they had no choice. It would ruin their ruse if they refrained from dancing. He stood, bowed, and then, in order to avoid looking too outplace with his courtly actions, had hauled her to her feet before she could acquiesce or decline.

The music was fast and chaotic, the notes tripping over each other, the harmonies breaking and catching up every other beat. They were both so used to the stiff, measured dances of the French Court that neither were sure what to do at first. And then, all at once, she surrendered herself to the music, caught him totally off guard with movement that was wild and beautiful at the same time. It was exhilarating to observe, and even more so to be included in. His natural athleticism allowed him to keep up with her, and a wild sort of grace that had been inherited from his mother allowed him to improvise with her. She leapt, he caught her in midair and lifted her higher. She spun, he steadied her when she grew dizzy. Her legs, freer in her traveling costume than in her fine dresses, kicked out, and he supported her, allowing her to keep her balance.

The musicians became frenetic in their playing, and she didn't miss a beat. When the music reached its crescendo and abruptly ceased, she collapsed against him, her breathing ragged. He can still feel her heart pounding against his chest, and when she looked up at him, there was something in her eyes, something he knew had been reflected back at her from his own. It was as if they froze in time.

Somewhere in the room, a serving girl had dropped a bottle, startling Mary abruptly out of his grip. The sound of the glass shattering on the floorboards seemed to reflect the shattering of his illusions, to some extent, his heart, when she looked up at him again. Her face had turned to stone, frozen in a horrified expression that had haunted his dreams that night. For the space of that dance, they had both forgotten about the fact that they were supposed to be play-acting.

It is easier to remember the particulars of their situation here, in the middle woods, rain pouring all around them. This setting matches their circumstances and her mood in particular. She barely touches her food, doesn't respond at all to his attempts to draw her out, opting instead to lean against the rock wall and stare out into the rain. He lets her get away with it until after he's stored the remnant of their food in a saddlebag, but when he catches her wiping a tear from her eye, he can no longer stand it.

"Now, I think, would be a good time for you to explain why you had to leave. You told me you were saving my brother's life. How?"

She closes her eyes and rests her head against the rocks, exposing the long line of her ivory throat. She grits her teeth, an uncharacteristic gesture.

"Do you remember our conversation about Nostradamus, the day before we left?"

"You were unsure as to whether or not to trust his prophecies. Yes, I remember it." He remembered the fear in her eyes when he confirmed that he trusted the soothsayer's visions, the way it had colored the tone in her voice.

"The reason I asked you was because-because he has foreseen Francis' death. If I marry Francis, he will die." She stops, looks to him as if waiting for him to laugh at her. He meets her gaze steadily and nods for her to continue, though his stomach is constricting with dread at the thought of his brother's death.

"I-I didn't believe him. Didn't want to. He'd made other predictions that weren't true, like Greer falling in love with a man with a white mark. It just seemed so preposterous. And then you confirmed his vision regarding Tomas' death, and-and-and th-then Aylee…"

Her face contorts and her eyes squeeze shut, as if trying to block out the memory. He sees her hands ball into fists so tight he fears her nails will break the skin on her palms. It takes her a minute to compose herself enough to speak. He has to refrain from reaching out to her. He opens his mouth to tell her that she doesn't have to say anything more, to apologize for asking in the first place, but she continues before he can:

"He told me that one of my ladies would die before the first frost melted." Her voice cracks and her eyes fly open. She looks terrorized, haunted. "I should have listened!" she cries, and she is suddenly on her feet, pacing the length of their small shelter, waving her arms. He rises with her, but doesn't try to stop her, not yet. He recognizes the beginning of her catharsis and doesn't want to impede it.

"I should have known better! I should have sent them away! All of them! Protected them, protected her! And I didn't, because I didn't believe. _You told me_ and I still didn't believe. And now Aylee is dead and it's my fault!"

She lunges to strike the rock wall at their back, but he is too fast for her, darting between her hand and the hard granite, catching her fist in both hands. She stares at him, her eyes fierce, her face pale, her hair wild in the wind. He channels love and acceptance into his eyes and slowly, the fierceness drains from her expression.

"I had to protect Francis," she whispers, clinging to his hands, as if desperate to convince him. "I couldn't let him d-d-die because of me. I just c-c-couldn't. I can't be selfish and let p-people die for me anymore. I won't, I won't, I won't…"

She begins to sob and he pulls her into his arms. She lets him crush her body to his chest, and her sobs go on enmeshing themselves with sounds of the rain storm around them. When, at long last, they begin lessen, he notices that she is shivering, though he cannot determine the cause. He eases her to the ground, and wraps both of their cloaks around her shoulders before throwing more wood onto the fire. While his back is turned, she composes herself, wiping the tears from her face and schooling her features back into a controlled expression. When he turns around again, she is sitting up straight, her face a mask that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"You don't have to do that, you know." She cocks her head as if she doesn't know what he's talking about. "You don't have to hide your heart or put up a wall to protect yourself. Not from me. Not ever from me. I will never judge you. I never want to hurt you. You are safe with me."

The hardness about her seems to melt at his words. Her shoulders slump, her chin drops, and she lets herself rest against the rock wall. She extends a hand to him, and he takes it in both of his, rubbing it briskly to restore warmth to it.

"Do you think I did the right thing?"

He chooses his words carefully. "I do. I trust Nostradamus' visions and I've seen them come to fruition many times. I believe that you are trying to save Francis and I am glad that you would put my brother's life above your happiness." He gives her hand a squeeze. "You are a brave, honorable woman, Mary Stuart."

"I'm sorry that I dragged you into all of this. I try to save Francis and I end up putting you in danger."

"No harm has come to me yet, and I doubt any will." This is not entirely true, but he doesn't want to worry her with thoughts of his father's wrath. "I truly am glad that I can be here with you, Mary."

She smiles faintly, and then turns to face him completely. "Do you know what you're going to do after we get to Calais?" He recognizes that she needs to change to subject and let's her get away with it.

"No, not entirely. I hear there are fortunes just waiting to be made in the New World. I could easily take a ship from Calais. I could have a pile of gold and an Indian bride in less than a year."

"Would you consider coming to Scotland?" Her question catches him completely off guard. She rushes to continue, "I mean, I would need an escort, naturally, to get to Scotland. And I could protect you there, give you a place in the Scottish court. And, I-I don't know anyone there, not anymore. It would be nice to have a friend to trust, at least until I can send for my ladies."

"Mary, I-"

"You don't have to give me an answer now, of course. But think about it. You're giving up so much for me. At least consider letting me repay you somehow."

"Mary, best way for you to repay me is to make it safely to Scotland. You have saved my brother's life and I am forever in your debt. It might be too late for me anyway."

"Bash, no!"

"There are...extenuating circumstances, Mary. Beyond your control or mine. All that matters now is that you get back to Scotland safely. We have to save Francis."

She nods slowly. "What's the plan for tomorrow then?"

"If we get on the road at dawn, we will be able to make it to Mantes a Jolie before nightfall. It's a small village, but it ought to have a place to stay. If we ride like we did today, we could easily cover thirty miles a day, perhaps more. We could make it to Calais by the end of the week. Provided there aren't any delays."

"Delays…Like being captured by King Henry's men and dragged back to French Court?"

"Exactly." He sees fear mounting in her eyes and hastens to reassure. "I will not let Francis die, Mary. We will run as far as we have to for as long as we can." He squeezes her hand again before releasing it and makes considerable effort to change his tone, "But, in order to do that, we need to be rested. Are you warm enough?"

She is only taken aback by the lightness in his voice for a moment, before she nods and removes his cloak from her shoulders, tossing it back to him. "Here, take this. I'll be alright with just mine."

"No, it will get very cold, very quickly tonight. I don't want you to get sick."

"And what will you do then?"

"I'm used to it." She arches an eyebrow at him and he relents. "More used to it than you will be."

She purses her lips. "We could share, you know."

He feels as if the ground has dropped from beneath him at the idea of holding her in his arms for an entire night, even though he is certain that this is not the intention behind her words. Nonetheless, he has to swallow thickly before he can speak again.

"I'll be fine, Mary, really. Sleep now."

She breathes a huffy little sigh and lays down without taking his cloak back. She is asleep almost instantly, and he smiles while he watches her face settle into peaceful oblivion. When he is sure that she is sound asleep, he drapes his cloak over her once again and settles back to await his own rest. He hopes that in turn for helping her find some measure of peace, his own sleep this night will be less haunted.


	3. Night Three

**Author's Note: **Can I just say that I _love_ being a part of this fandom? I feel like the Mashers are super supportive and lovely to one another and I so appreciate seeing that and being able to participate in it. So thanks. :) Also, I love this chapter, not gonna lie. I hope you do too!

_Night Three _or _Angry and Manhandled_

She is mad. Well, actually, that's a bit of an understatement. A lot of an understatement. She is bordering on furious, though he doesn't quite understand why exactly. It doesn't help that she won't say a word to him either. Which he can understand, to a certain extent. They both slept fitfully the night before, and he can tell that this much hard travel is wearing her down. He promises himself that he will take it easy on them tomorrow, thinking that they have created enough distance between themselves and Fontainebleau that it will be safe. But being travel weary doesn't quite explain the way she is behaving, has been behaving since they arrived at Gaillon.

Whenever he comes close to her, she pulls away. She won't make eye contact with him, won't let him look at her face for long enough to deduce what the possible issue might be. She moves with a calculated deliberateness, unpacking things from her bag with an unnecessary force that, he suspects, does not convey the depth of her emotions. He opts to stay out of her way, let her temper boil itself out. But after quietly sitting at the table for at least an hour, watching her silently with raised brows as she unpacks, freshens up, and begins rip through her hair with a brush in an attempt to tame the long tresses, he has had enough.

He crosses the room in three steps and plants himself in front of her. He takes her shoulder in one hand and blocks her easily with the other when she tries to hit him with her hairbrush. They are both a bit surprised by this and she freezes, locking her gaze with his. He can practically feel his skin searing with the heat of her gaze. When she attempts to hit him again, he grabs her wrist and reverses his hold on her so that her back is pressed against his chest, effectively pinning the offending arm to her side. He crosses his other arm across her chest, and she immobilized from the waist up.

"Unhand me! Unhand the Queen of Scotland this instant!" She is beyond outraged, and he is beyond caring.

"Not until her Grace drops the brush," he says through gritted teeth. "And keep your voice down."

She squirms, tries to stomp on his feet, which he narrowly avoids. He tightens his hold on her and lifts her from her feet with a squeeze of his arms, so that her feet are dangling in midair. She shrieks in indignation, earning her a quick shushing. She makes threats, both as his friend and as a queen, which he ignores. Her thrashing makes her hair fly about wildly and some of it ends up in his mouth, tangled in the stubble of his beard. After a while, she loses gumption and the brush clatters to the floor.

"There, was that so diff-"

She kicks him in the shin, hard, and he drops her with a curse. She falls unceremoniously to floor, a sprawling pile of dark brocade and cascading curls, while he hops on one foot, still cursing beneath his breath. She watches him silently, not moving from her position on the ground for a full minute before she bursts out laughing.

He's so taken aback by her sudden laughter that he freezes mid-hop and she laughs even harder. He stares at her, wide-eyed himself for once, unsure of what to do next. He has never before been in a situation similar to this one. Would it be prudent to be cheeky at this point and try to make her laugh more? Or would the better course of action be to back away slowly, as if she were a wild animal? He's about to opt for backing away, when she sees the expression on his face and doubles over, sprawling across the floor. Her laughter is so unexpected, so bright and so carefree that he begins to smile himself, in spite of his uncertainty.

He stoops next to her and waits for her laughter to ease, still painfully unsure of how he ought to be behaving. On the one hand, her laughter is intoxicating. On the other, he's beginning to wonder if she's somehow become hysterical. Eventually, her laughter slows to gasps and belabored breathes, but another glance at his face sets her off, until she's not even making sounds, just laying on the floor and making little gasping sounds. So, he lowers himself to the floor and waits again, watching her warily, though schooling his face to be expressionless, lest he accidentally start her up again. Little by little, she calms, until she can pull herself upright and meet his eyes without giggling.

"Would her Grace care to explain herself?" he asks as he props his chin up with one hand, the image of attentiveness. Her face becomes wreathed in smiles again.

"Your face was so funny! It was like you didn't know whether you should run or weep!"

He lets his face crack into a brief grin and arches an eyebrow. "That's not exactly what I was talking about. Your mood since we arrive here has been...mercurial, at best."

She sobers entirely, though her expression is not as ominous as before. "You said I was your wife."

"To the innkeeper?" He is incredulous, aghast, dumbfounded. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, but cannot form the words. It is her turn to silently watch him while he struggles to create a sentence. "You've been _torturing_ me with your wrath for the last hour because of a lie I told the _innkeeper_?"

"Well, I'm not..."

"Have you _read_ the book of Genesis?" he cries. He can't believe this. Mary is touted throughout the nation as being a staunch Catholic. Her Catholicism is the lynchpin to her claim on England. She, of all people, ought to understand. "Abraham and Sarah? Over and over he tells people she's his sister and she gets taken by the people he says it to. _God_ has to save her from being taken advantage of…"

"But-"

"Did you _see_ the men that were in that tavern downstairs?" She gives him a blank look. "If I had said you were my sister, or my companion, I would have had to sit guard outside your door all night to protect you. I was trying to protect you, Mary."

Realization begins to dawn on her face. He knows that she understands completely, but he cannot stop talking. It's as if he can create justification for the thrill of delight claiming her as his wife had given him, even though he knows he has no right to it.

"Well, that and two rooms are more memorable than one. If my father's men manage to trace us here, the innkeeper will have a harder time remembering the couple that paid for a single room than the traveling companions who needed two rooms. People's memories are always tied to their money."

She deflates a little, the haughtiness entirely gone from her face. "You're right, Bash. I'm so sorry. I should have known, should have trusted you."

She looks so forlorn that he cannot help but crawl closer to her, so that he can really look into her eyes. "What is it, Mary? Why did that make you so mad?" He never wants her to be mad at him ever again.

"It's silly," she whispers.

He raises an eyebrow, "I think we have made enough room for silliness tonight."

"It's just that...Well, I'm supposed to be a married woman now." She rises abruptly and moves away from him, turning her back to him. "And

when I heard you say that, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to be a wife so badly. And I can't…"

He sits back on his heels, feeling like an idiot for his insensitivity. Vaguely, he wonders if he really should be taking this much note that she hadn't necessarily said she wanted to be _Francis'_ wife, that she had said she wanted being _his_ wife to be true. The slip of tongue has his stomach doing somersaults. He forces himself to maintain control, changing the subject in such a way that he may never have to wonder about her feelings again.

"Do you regret this, Mary? Do you want me to take you back to Court? I can, I will. I know Francis would gladly spend the rest of his life, no matter how long, as your husband."

"No, no, of course not."

"Alright then." He rises, stoops to pick up her hairbrush and sets it on the table. "I'm going to have some food sent up here. Is there anything particular you'd like me to ask for?"

She shakes her head dumbly.

"Bash?" He pauses, looks over his shoulder. "I'm sorry for kicking you."

He smiles broadly, "And I'm sorry for manhandling you."

"I'm sorry I got so angry." She is serious, contrite.

"For what it's worth, I'm so sorry I ever gave you cause."


	4. Night Four

**Author's Note**: A few things: A) I have heard my whole life that if you don't want to be tracked, you should try to get to and stay in water, and then I was talking about this particular aspect to a friend who's an avid hunter, and was told that I was wrong. But for the purposes of the story, I'm right. B) I know that a sprained ankle doesn't seem like that big of a deal. But in the 1500's, it's totally realistic for it to put someone into a state of semi-shock, so don't think I'm being overly dramatic. C) Thanks so much for all your support and positive feedback! I love this fandom!

_Night Four _or _Flight and Fear_

They were both in pleasant moods after a day of more relaxed travel. Even though they had moved at a slower pace, the smooth road let them still achieve a good amount of distance with more chances to let her and their horses rest. Better yet, it had allowed them to talk, giving him opportunity to make her laugh. He felt it was due penance for making her so angry the night before.

Louviers, the town they'd arrived in just after nightfall was pleasant enough, although rather small. He knew that they would be easily recognized as newcomers, easily remembered for their money, but he'd thought they would be able to get away with it, especially if they were to leave before dawn. Perhaps it was the intoxication of being in Mary's presence or relief with the decision that he would leave France and go to Scotland with her, though he'd not informed her of this yet, but he hadn't been on his guard like he should have.

It was a mistake that he'd regret for weeks to come.

The evening had started easily enough: he'd found them a room, she'd seen to it that the horses were cared for, they freshened up, ate a quick meal and requested the preparation of food for their travels the next day, before retiring to their room. Mary made him a pallet of blankets on the floor while he charted the course for the next day. They were about to retire to their respective corners of the room, when he hears something, the faint sounds of hooves striking the hard ground. He feels his stomach twist into knots, but doesn't say anything, not yet. But she is attuned to his body language and instantly stiffens when she sees his back go rigid.

Her face goes taut with fear as he slips from the room, walking on cat's feet to peer out the window at the end of the hall, the one with the view of the only road into town. His fears are confirmed. On the hill just outside the town, he can see the gleam of moonlight on armor, and he doesn't have to have daylight to know that the four soldiers riding towards the town are wearing his father's colors. Mary is watching him from the door to their room, shrouded in a blanket, her frame silhouetted by candlelight. Her loveliness catches him off guard for a moment and he freezes in place, hating to ruin it, desperate to shield her from it.

"Bash, what is it?"

"They're coming."

She strangles a cry behind one hand and clutches the frame of the door with the other. She's so pale, he's afraid she might faint, goes as far as to put a hand beneath her elbow, just in case. At his touch, she rallies, spins around and runs back into the room. She begins throwing things back into their saddlebags.

"Mary! There's no time," he cries urgently, tripping over himself to get to his boots and sword.

She nods, frantic, and searches for her boots. He tosses them to her one at a time, pulling her overcoat and cloak on while she laces them. He thanks God for her modesty, for she doesn't have to waste time buttoning the tiny buttons up the front of her traveling costume now, but can seize her satchel and her cloak and is ready almost as soon as he is.

He grabs one half-packed saddlebag, slings it over his shoulder and walks towards the window. The roof of the summer kitchen is just below their window, and he prays it is sturdy enough to hold their weight. He goes first, testing the strength of the thatched roof before helping Mary through. It holds and they gingerly make their way across it. When they reach the edge, he gets on his stomach and she follows suit.

"I'm going to lower you to the ground. You shouldn't fall more than a couple of feet," he whispers, cringing at how loud his voice sounds, in spite of the fact that he's whispering. She bites her lip and nods.

"You're so brave." He tries to smile at her reassuringly, but is afraid that it comes out as more of a grimace. "Now, swing your feet over the edge. Good girl. Now, I'm going to take your wrists, hang on tight to mine. There. Now, I'm going to let you go. You'll be fine."

He edges himself as far off the edge of the roof as he can in order to decrease her drop and let's her go. She lands somewhat ungracefully, but intact and he moves to follow suit. The distance between himself and the ground is greater, in spite of his added height and his landing is off-kilter. When he stands, he winces, feeling something bend the wrong way in his ankle.

"Are you alright?" She is at his side in an instant, her hands on his shoulder and arm.

"I'm fine. Fine. We've got to go."

She doesn't have time to say anything else, because, at that moment, a serving girl exits the summer kitchen. The girl stops short when she sees them, and they all are frozen in shock and horror for a moment. Mary is the first to recover and she cross the distance between them quickly, clamping a hand over the girl's mouth.

"It's alright. We are in trouble and we need your help. If I take my hand off your mouth, will you promise not to scream? I'll give you a gold ring." The girl, who can't be more than fourteen, nods, obviously terrified in spite of the reassuring words and promise of gifts. Mary lifts her hand and gives the girl her most heart-warming smile and lifts her hand, placing it warmly on the girl's back.

"Now, I'll give you this too," and she pulls a garnet ring from her other hand and wraps the girl's fingers around it, "if you will put on my cloak and take a walk down the main road. If anyone chases you, I need you to run as fast as you can away from them. Do you understand?" Again, the girl nods frantically.

Impulsively, Mary hugs her. "Thank you. Now go!"

She turns back to him, but he is already half-limping, half-running towards the stable where their horses are. She runs to catch up to him, seamlessly sliding her arm around his waist, taking as much of his weight and he allows. Blessedly, the stable and the inn are on the same property, and they are able to reach it without garnering attention. But he can hear the sounds of the king's men drawing near, and knows it is only a matter of time before they reach the inn.

The horses nicker and whiny softly at being disturbed, but she is able to shush them quickly. They work in conjunction to saddle the horses, but the darkness and their combined fear makes them clumsy. Finally, the horses are saddled and when they lead them out, he tries hard not to let her see how heavily he's leaning on his horse. Just before they reach the door, he hears voices and his heart sinks because the king's men are just outside. He can see their torchlight, hear their footsteps drawing nearer. They exchange glances, try to creep backwards, but there is nowhere to go.

He hands her his horse's reins and prepares to draw his sword, angling his body so that it is between her and the door. He recognizes the voice of Bruno, a friend of his in the guard, and tries not to think about the fact that the man has two children and a pregnant wife as he prepares himself to cut Bruno down. The stable door cracks open, an arm and shoulder come through, but a commotion on the other side of it makes the body pause. There is a scream, and the door closes again, the clatter of footsteps and the shouts of the king's men fading away from them.

He nearly collapses in relief. She shoves the reins into his hands and creeps forward, poking just the side of her face out of the door. Her body sags and she leans against the door.

"It worked," she whispers. "It really worked. They're headed in the other direction."

As soon as they are out of the stable, they mount their horses. The pain in his ankle is not so terrible that he cannot ride, though he's afraid that if the horse spooks, he won't be able to control it without doing himself damage. She, having nearly as much experience riding as he does, knows this, and her eyes are filled with unspoken questions. He doesn't let her ask them.

"We need to get to the river. Straight through town, across the field, and into the wood. Alright?"

Her whole face is a study in worry and fear, but she nods. "Alright."

His plan is effective and they make it out of town and to the river without being seen. The fear coursing through his veins distracts him from the pain, for which he is grateful. Once they reach the river, he leads them directly into its center. It is swollen from the recent rains, but not enough to go past the horses' knees.

"We'll be harder to track in the water," he explains over his shoulder.

"Absolutely not!" She's urged her horse forward and cut in front of him. "Your ankle! If your horse slips, or starts…" He can barely see her face, but he can hear the different emotions in her voice, cutting through the roar of the river. She urges her horse closer to his, reaches for his arm. "Bash, please."

"It's safer this way. I promise, we won't stay in the river for long. I'll be alright." She doesn't move. "Please, Mary. I have to keep you safe."

"What about keeping _you_ safe, Bash?"

"I can take care of us both. I promise. Just for a little while, but we have to get moving. For Francis, if not for me."

He can feel rather than see her sighing, knows that he has won, at least for now. "Which way?"

"Downstream."

She turns her horse abruptly and allows him to take the lead. All goes well for a time. It is bitter cold, the splashing water making it even colder, but the combination of outright fear and heightened alertness is enough to warm them. They say nothing for a long time, both too consumed with their riding to speak. It is slow going, but he hasn't heard or seen anything to indicate that they've been followed.

He's just starting to breathe easier when his horse slips. He manages to stay on his mount, but wrenches his ankle painfully in the process. Although he doesn't cry out, she knows something is wrong. Before he knows what's happening, she's taken the reins from him, and is riding to the shore. He wants to scold her, to insist they keep moving, but a wave of dizziness hits him and it's all he can do to remain upright.

She leads them to a grassy clearing just off-shore, tying up the horses before she helps him dismount. It bruises his ego a bit, having her catch him as he half-falls from his horse, but he's suddenly too tired to make a saucy comment. She helps him to lean against a tree, kneeling next to him once he's settled himself on the ground.

"Bash, I've got to look at your ankle. But I'm afraid it's going to hurt a bit." He makes a noncommittal noise and lays his head back against the tree trunk. She begins to ease his boot from his foot. A stab of pain clears his head and he grits his teeth, but the pain isn't enough to elicit a moan. She shoots him an apologetic look and pulls his boot the rest of the way off. She takes his foot between her hands, twisting it to the left and the right. Pain shoots up his leg, but he is pleasantly distracted by the way she's worrying her lower lip.

"I don't think it's broken," she's saying, lowering his foot the ground. He forces himself to focus on her words. "I think your body is reacting as if you'd experienced some sort of traumatization though, like it doesn't know you're not in danger anymore."

He nods, "I've seen it happen after a battle. A man's been injured, but the thrill of the fight distracts him from it until afterwards. It's as if the body overcompensates. I'll be fine, Mary. We should get back on the move." He makes as if to stand, but her firm hand on his chest stops him.

"Sebastian, do not lie to me." Her voice is low, fierce, but he detects an undercurrent of something else he cannot name. "What we need to do is get you warm and rested and get your ankle in a splint so you can't damage it further."

She ignores his protests and sets to pulling the saddles of the horses, arranging them a few feet from each other on the grass. She spreads one of the horse's blankets over the ground between them.

"Up," she commands, and then offers her hands to help him. Allowing her to support his weight, they move to the bed she's made on the ground. He notices that she is shivering too, thinks back on the young girl running away with her cloak, recalls how cold he himself was riding through the river. But then, maybe it's his own violent shivering that's causing her slim shoulders to shake.

"Mary, are you warm enough?"

"Of course." She eases him to the ground, propping his feet up on one saddle and cushioning his head with the other. She grabs the other horse blanket and tucks it around his legs and feet. "You're the one who's freezing. And hurt. And if we don't take care of you now, I'll end up lost in the woods, perhaps dead." She moves back to his head, and cradles his face between her gloved palms. "Let me do this, Bash." She lifts his head and pulls the hood of his cloak from beneath his shoulder blades, securing it beneath his chin as if he's a small child, but her words have left him powerless to stop her. She tucks the blanket tighter around him and rises.

"I'm going to go look for something to use to splint up your ankle. I won't be gone long." Her words strike him with trepidation and he launches himself upright just in time to grab the hem of her skirt.

"Mary, no!" She stops and crouches back down beside him.

"What is it?" Her face is wreathed with concern. He grabs her hand in both of his, as if he can anchor her to him.

"I'm still cold." This isn't a lie and he can see that she believes him.

She nods slowly. "Of course. A splint can wait."

And then she does something that shocks his body far more than his twisted ankle. She gently pulls her hands from his and begins to unbutton the front of her traveling costume, her fingers quick and deft with the buttons in spite of the cold. It's too dark for him to make out much of what's beneath the outer layer of her outfit, but he is incredulous nonetheless. After a moment, he decides that this can't actually be happening. He waits, sure that he has slipped into a delusion. But then her fingers are beneath the blanket and on the buttons of his frockcoat and he can't stop the words before they come out of his mouth.

"Mary, what are you doing?"

"Body heat," she explains briskly, without looking up. "It's the best I can do to warm you. I don't dare light a fire."

She's done with his buttons and has spread his coat open. Moving so quickly he's not sure what's happening, she has lifted the blanket and pressed herself against his body. His arms automatically close themselves around her as she lays her head on his shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the two thin layers of fabric that separate their bodies, can tip his head down and smell her hair. He has never been this happy in his life. Moving slowly, as if any sudden movements will startled her out of his arms, he wraps his cloak around both of them, then pulls the blanket to cover her shoulders.

"Better?" she asks, nuzzling into his shoulder.

He cannot begin to voice just how much better this is, how he can die happy now, how he wants to stay this way for the rest of his life. All he can do is reply, "Very much indeed," and pull her closer before he falls into a deep sleep.


	5. Night Five

**Author's Note: **Sorry for making you wait! I was so inspired earlier that these scenes were just flowing from my imagination right into my fingers. I know exactly what I want the last couple of nights to look like, but I've been struggling a bit with these middle nights. I blame a lack of new inspiration. Thanks for your patience!

_Night Five _or _Fear, Fatigue, and Faking_

He wakes in stages. First, his ears, full of the sounds of the nearby river, the soft snuffling of the horses, the wind in the trees. Then, his body, feeling the hard ground beneath his back, the dull ache in his ankle, the chill in the air. Finally, he opens his eyes. From the light that filters through the trees, he can tell the sun is setting. He groans aloud at the thought that they have slept the whole day away as he reaches to shake her awake.

Except that she is not there.

He starts from his position, sitting up so quickly it makes his head spin. "Mary!"

His shout reverberates through the air and he cringes, thinking of who else could have possibly heard it. He gets to his feet with only a small struggle. The back of his mind notes the fact that his ankle does not seem to be that worse for the wear. She's nowhere to be seen. Not with the horses, though both horses are still there. Not in the river, or anywhere near it. He belts his sword around his waist, trying to remember taking it off the night before, and is reaching for his boots when he hears something crashing through the forest.

He draws his sword and ducks behind a tree, preparing himself for a fight. The footsteps are drawing closer. He sets his mouth in a grim line, glad that he shall have the element of surprise. They've nearly reached the clearing. He hopes that she has managed to escape. The footsteps have stopped. There is a soft thump, like something falling to the ground. He takes a step out from behind the tree and immediately drops his sword.

"Bash? _Bash?_"

His name has never sounded sweeter, but he can't dwell on it because she has launched herself at him, throwing her arms about him, babbling incoherently into his neck. He steadies himself against the tree, and wraps his arms around her tightly, gripping her shoulders, stroking her hair, cradling the back of her neck. He never wants to stop touching her. He raises his eyes to heaven and thanks God that she is whole and safe and with him.

"I heard you call for me," she says in a trembling voice, one hand moving to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "I thought something horrible had happened. I was so afraid-" she breaks off and buries her face in his shoulder, clutching the back of his neck and his waist. She is shaking like a leaf. He pulls her even closer, pressing one hand to the back of her head and pulling his cloak around her with the other, as if it can shield her from her imagination.

"It's alright," his voice is rough with emotion. "I'm fine. You're fine. We're both safe, thank God. When I woke and you were gone…" he cringes into her hair, "Mary, I thought they'd found you."

"I'm sorry. I never should have left without telling you." She raises her face to look him in the eye, and hers are brimming with tears. "I thought I'd be back before you woke. You were so tired, so sick. I was afraid to wake you. I wanted your body to be able to heal itself. I was so scared for you."

She closes her eyes against the memory of the night before, and it's all he can do not to kiss away the tear that has escapes from beneath her lashes. He lets himself rests his forehead against hers instead, breathing in her scent, mingling their breaths together. He can feel her bracing herself, can feel ribcage expanding beneath his fingers as she takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she has vanquished the intense emotion in them. "I knew you'd want to come with me if I went out on my own," she says softly.

"And what, pray tell, were you doing going off on your own?"

She brightens considerably, detangling herself from the circle of his arms. He is loathe to let her go, but she is practically skipping away from him.

"I wanted to find you something to use a splint," she calls over her shoulder. She bends and sweeps up the saddlebag from the ground. He has a vague memory of the sound of it dropping before she threw herself at him. "Which I didn't. But I found so much more. Look, dinner!"

The bag contains a few carrots, mushrooms, some herbs he thinks he recognizes, and strips of black silk. He pulls out one such strip and lets it dangle from his fingers.

"And how, exactly, does one prepare this particular bounty of the forest?"

"Oh, that," she shrugs. "I tore the lining out of my habit to wrap up your foot." He doesn't know how to respond to this. Deconstructing the one item of clothing she owns so that she can help him. He's unusually touched by this gesture. "We should probably wrap it now, actually. Sit."

It is not a request and he does what he's told, letting the tree support his back again while she moves to kneel at his feet. She takes his foot between her hands, gently moves it this way and that, asking him how much it hurts. None of it really does and she seems pleased that there is little swelling.

"We'll wrap it up, just to give you some added support, but you should be right as rain in a few days, provide you take it easy," she declares, reaching for the bag.

He could have told her this much, has dressed more sprained ankles that he can count, but he relishes her care and tender touch. She wraps his foot up as well as any army surgeon in the king's service, and he tells her so.

'It's nothing, really." But he can tell she is pleased by his praise.

"Tell me," he begins, wagging his eyebrows playfully, "when does a queen find the time to learn medicine and herbology? Not to mention how to forage in the forest?"

"At the convent," she explains. "There were chores and everyone, no matter their rank, had to contribute some way. I spent some time helping in the infirmary and some time in the kitchens. They never let me do much, fear I'd hurt myself and they'd be blamed, I'm sure. But I did pick up a few things."

"Do you miss it there? It was your home for, what, nearly ten years?"

"A little over ten, actually." She sits back on her heels, furrowing her brow as she thinks back. "I miss the freedom, I suppose. The nuns treated me like I was just a girl most of the time. It was rather lovely, actually." She sighs softly before her face lights with a smile. "I miss the children there too. Sweet little girls, some of whom I cared for when they were babies. When I send the convent gifts, I always get letters and drawings from them in return."

"They must miss you as well."

"Perhaps." She smiles softly, tying off the last of his homemade bandage. "You must be starving. And cold too! Let me help you get comfortable before I light a fire."

"No need to light a fire, we should get moving soon anyway."

"Moving? _Tonight_? While you're still recovering? It's out of the question."

"We'll go slowly. We'll rest often, but we have to keep moving. We've been here too long as it is. It may even be a good idea to keep traveling by night and resting by day for a while. We'll be less conspicuous."

"But-"

"Do you trust me?" His question catches her off guard.

She replies without hesitation, without even blinking: "Of course."

"Then trust me when I tell you we have go to get out of here. It's not safe that we've stayed this long. Francis won't stop looking for you, his men will be relentless in their search."

He can see instantly that, though she doesn't like it, he has won. He watches her lips press into a thin line and her hands ball into fists. He is, of course, appreciative of the fact that she is reluctant to let him have his way. It makes his heart leap to think that this is a hard decision for her. Yet, she had chosen to go along with him in order to protect his brother. He wonders how long he will be able to play the Francis card in order to overcome her stubbornness before she catches on to what he's doing.

They eat make a simple meal of the food she has foraged and some traveling bread she'd had the foresight to throw in the saddle bag before they fled Louviers. She watches him silently the entire time, letting him know with the blatant disapproval on her face that she thinks this is a bad idea, even though she doesn't voice it. The oppression of her silence coupled with her obvious concern for his well being almost has him ready to recant his decision. If she had asked him to stay again, he would have done so, if only to see her smile. But she doesn't, and he is reminded that her love for his brother outweighs any affection or concern she feels on his behalf.

Darkness falls just as they mount their horses, but he has been trained to navigate with the stars, and does not mind. It is a beautiful night, in spite of the chill in the air, and the moon is shining brightly from where it hangs low in the sky. He sets a pace that, given the standards he's held them to for the past four days, is relatively slow. They stick close to the river, continuing to follow it downstream, towards the sea and the new life he is beginning to desperately long for.

They do not speak for nearly an hour and a half before she calls out that she needs to rest. He is quick dismount, to rush to help her from her horse, even though he has seen her ride in excess of four hours without pause. Her skin in the moonlight is pale though, and he cannot help but fret about whether or not he is going to hard on her. She brushes off his worried touch, claiming that she just needs to stretch out her legs.

"Why don't you sit down, give your ankle a break? I'll look at it in a moment," she suggests airily.

She barely takes the time to stretch before she's kneeling at his feet, easing the boot off his foot, and probing his ankle. When she is satisfied that he's done no damage to his foot over the course of their short ride, she sits back on her heels and studies his face.

"What?" he asks, quizzically, concerned by intent look on her face.

"How do you feel? Are you warm enough? Did you get enough to eat earlier? I think there's an apple in my satchel, would you like me to get it for you? Do you-"

"Mary, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Of course, just a bit tired." Her voice is airy and she sinks against a tree trunk. "I'll be alright after a bit."

She doesn't stay against the tree trunk for long though, instead rising to refill their water flask and to seek out the apple she'd mentioned. She sees to it that he has a long drink before taking the flask to her own lips. When he refuses the apple, she purses her lips and puts it away.

"If you're feeling rested enough, we should get a move on," he suggests.

"Of course," she says, but he catches her brow furrowing before she turns to mount her horse.

A little over an hour later, she asks him for another rest. He allows it because he has no idea how long she was awake before he was and he's worried that she is over-extending herself. Except that she behaves much the same way as she had during their first stop, fussing over him, insisting that he rest his ankle, without actually resting herself. He chalks it up to fatigue, assumes that her muscles and bones are tired from the days of hard riding and that she just needs to not be in the saddle for a spell.

But when they've been riding for less than forty minutes, and she asks for another stop, he knows she's been fooling him. By giving him the illusion of having his way, she has been doing her best to ensure that he doesn't ride them too hard tonight. It's brilliant really, her recognizing that he will do anything to make her more comfortable. He's secretly delighted that she would go to such lengths to take care of him, in spite of the fact that she hates appearing weak. But he cannot allow her to continue this behavior. They've barely achieved any distance, and he can feel the king's men closing in on them. He decides to try to beat her at her own game.

She goes through the series of questions about his general well-being, the answers to which he over-exaggerates ever so slightly. She attempts to make him eat, and he compromises by slicing the apple in half and sharing it with her. After they're through eating, he insists they get back on the move and she creates excuses to stay a moment longer: the horses need to eat too; he should drink more water; she wants to know, does he think she can climb this tree? He laughs out loud at her last excuse, remembering the rumors that flew about Court just before she'd betrothed herself to Tomas, the Portuguese bastard-prince. The memory of her at that man's mercy cut's his laughter short.

When he manages to convince her to ride again, he addresses something that's been bothering him all night. Without a word, he whips his cloak off with a flourish before she mounts. She gives him an exasperated look, opens her mouth to tell him to put it back on, but he's too fast:

"I'm growing too warm, Mary, and you must be chilly without your own cloak. Wear mine for a while? Wouldn't want me to overheat, now would we?"

She doesn't believe him for a second, but she can't say so without belying her own ruse. She accepts it and they mount their horses. The next time she asks after a rest, he ignores her, ensuring that she stays beneath the warmth of his cloak for an hour longer before he gives in a let's them rest. They exchange the cloak at every resting point, both making up the most outlandish excuses, neither willing to admit their part in the game they've both committed to. He let's her win, though, when she insists they stop to get some sleep just before dawn. They both fall asleep with smiles on their faces.


	6. Night Six

**Authors Note: **At least I had _ideas_ for the last chapter. This one was a pain in the neck to write, which is why it's annoyingly short and boring. I just couldn't get into it. However, I have the next TWO chapters written, they're just marinating. I was excited about them. I wrote ahead. If that's any consolation. I promise, they're good. Full of Mashy sweetness. And then I think there's only one more to write and this thing is done! Thanks for waiting and sorry again!

_Night Six _or_ The Chapter I Wasn't Interested in Writing_

He'd only allowed them to sleep until midday. They'd ridden into the city of Rouen with intentions of replacing some of their lost supplies before riding to the village of Berentin. But when she'd spied horses in the king's livery tied outside an alehouse just inside the city gates, they hastily returned to the road. Now that it was nearly nightfall and they were nearing the village, they were discussing their next steps.

"It wouldn't be safe to get a room in the village. The king's men are too close as it is," he explains for the third time.

"And I understand that completely," she replies, "but that doesn't change the fact that it is about to storm. You need some good, warm, uninterrupted rest, especially after sleeping on the ground and-"

She breaks off suddenly, reigning in her horse. He opens his mouth to ask her what she's doing, but she raises her hand, able to silence him with a gesture. And then he hears it too, a child's cry, a man's hoarse scream. He remembers the man and little boy they'd passed some time ago on the road, how they'd avoided them by circumventing the road in the wood, just to avoid being seen. Apparently, she hadn't remembered that detail, because she'd already urged her horse back the way they came before he's processed what she's doing. He shouts her name, rolls his eyes, and kicks his horse's sides.

He catches up to her just in time to see her ride her horse between a rather large man, definitely not the one they'd avoided earlier, and a little boy, who seems to have fallen to the ground. He hears her say something, the low tone she's pitched her voice in carrying over the distance between them. Thank God, she's had the presence of mind to pull up her hood, so the attacker cannot see her face. When the bandit draws a dagger from his belt, his heart twists, and he spurs his horse harder, unsheathing his own sword as his rides, a savage shout pouring from his lips. At the same time, thunder crashes and lightning cracks. The bandit takes one look at him crashing towards them with murder in his eyes and runs into the wood.

Rain has started to fall, but she doesn't take notice, sliding from her horse and to the ground next to the child, who is sobbing. She has thrown back the hood of her cloak and is gathering the child, who can't be much older than six or seven into her arms, checking for hurts. He dismounts and searches for the man that had accompanied the child. A groan draws their attentions to a shallow ditch on the other side of the road.

"Grand-père!" the boy shrieks and runs around her to the other side of the road.

They exchange a glance and she shrugs as if to say "Well, we can't very well disappear now." He shrugs too, but in more resignation, and they cross the road. The man in the ditch is quite old and bleeding from a gash on his head. The child is in the ditch, shaking the man's shoulder, sobbing loudly. The man is conscious, and is murmuring to the lad, patting his knee gently. When he sees the two of them standing on the lip of the ditch, his eyes fill, and he rushes to rise and grip their hands.

"I can't thank you enough. If you hadn't come when you did, who knows what would have happened to my Pierre here." The boy rises upon hearing his name, but immediately ducks shyly behind his grandfather's leg.

Before he can reply, she has cried out, "You're bleeding!" and has jumped into the ditch with them to press her handkerchief against the old man's forehead.

"Just a scratch, my girl. I'll be alright." But he takes her handkerchief. "Women," he says, shrugging at Bash, "always making a fuss over simple things, eh?"

"If you're not injured, then we really should get back on the road." He stoops to give her a hand out of the ditch, ignoring her exasperated expression.

They end up getting invited over for dinner. They tell the family that they're lovers whose parents don't approve of their relationship, and that they've run away in order to be together. The family is very understanding and accepting due to the fact that they saved Grand-père and Pierre. Bash watches Mary play with Pierre and thinks that she will make an excellent mother. They end up sleeping in the barn, both happy. Bash because they have managed to avoid being seen by anyone who might betray them to the king's men and Mary because he was able to have a night of warm, uninterrupted rest.

**I'm really really sorry. There's a good chance I'll change it later. Give me ideas for what I could do here? **


	7. Night Seven

**Author's Note:** So, _I _like this chapter much better. I think it addresses an issue that the show sort of glossed over, remedying the situation with sex instead of with an actual cathartic episode. So I decided to address it here. Also, that's for being so sweet about the last chapter. I hope this one and those consequent will make up for Night Six. OH! And I've plotted out their entire journey on Google Maps. Let me know in a review if you want the link, so I can PM it to you since this site won't let me post the whole thing. I like multi-media storytelling. :)

_Night Seven _or _Monsters _

He will not sleep tonight. He wonders if he will ever sleep again. Every time he closes his eyes, he hears her screaming his name and sees her face pale and full of terror. He sits and watches her, reliving the evening's early events over and over in his mind.

They had arrived the port city of Dieppe with some daylight to spare. He'd cautioned her to put her hood up before they'd crossed the city gates, hoping that hiding her sweet face and slender body in the folds of his cloak would keep her safe. He'd warned her earlier about the sort of men that got off the trading vessels that frequented the town. She exercised extra caution, keeping her head bowed and riding close to him. It had seemed to have worked.

They'd found an inn with no trouble at all. It was in a good part of the city, far enough away from the docks that he'd felt he would be able to sleep without worry. By now, the lies about her being his wife flowed from his lips like water, as did the ones requesting spare blankets because his poor wife had such a delicate constitution. As was their custom, while he bargained for their room, buying silence along the way, she had taken the horses to be stabled. Their innkeeper had suggested a stable just down the street, and in spite of his earlier worries, she'd convinced him that she'd be fine crossing the street.

When she hadn't returned by the time he'd arranged their room and board for the night, he'd been concerned. He popped his head outside to look for her and was just in time to see her crossing the street from the stable just down the block. The green of his cloak about her shoulders makes her stand out against the grey of the building fronts. She raises her hand in half a wave, but he doesn't see it. He's focusing on the man behind her, the one who's following her too closely and intently to be disinterested in her.

He was too far away to stop it, to do anything but draw his sword and run towards her. Her brow furrows when she sees him, and she half-turns to look behind her. The man sees him approaching, and takes his chance. She starts to run, but is too late, he's grabbed her shoulder roughly. His name on her lips slices the air, half a scream, half a sob. She struggles, kicks, breaks free, makes to run towards him, but the brute has grabbed her cloak.

He runs faster, bellowing her name, swinging his sword like a madman. He is close enough to see the surprise on her face when, with a tug on the cloak, she is pulled backwards and off her feet. He watches her face contort, sees her choking as she's dragged by his cloak towards her assailant. He's nearly reached them, is close enough to see her pawing at the buckle at her throat with both hands as she strains towards him.

And then, as if by miracle or magic, she is free and falling towards him while her attacker falls backwards, cloak in hand. She falls to the ground before he can catch her, backing away on all fours. He leaps over her body and stands with his sword pointed at the man who is also on the ground, placing his body between them. He's about to run the brute through when a soft cry stops him.

"Bash, no!" He pauses mid-swing, half looks over his shoulder at her where she's still laying on the street. Her face is so pale, drawn tightly about the mouth. Her eyes are so wide that, for a moment, he fears he'll fall into them

"Killing him will make a scene," she whispers in a voice only for his ears.

She right. He knows she's right. It takes every ounce of strength for him to stay his hand. The attacker jumps up and runs for his life, her cloak still in his grasp, trailing after him like a banner. He shouts obscenities after the fleeing figure, shakes his sword in the air for good measure. He is shaking with rage. With great effort, he sheaths his sword.

He tries to take a deep breath. And another. Slowly the rage ebbs away until it is just tickling the corners of his mind. Hands are on his arm. It takes him a moment to register that they are hers. She's covered in dirt from where she fell, her hair streams about her face in wild tendrils, and her throat blooms red from where the cloak choked it.

"Are you alright?"

He runs his hands over her arms, her shoulders, her face, checking for hurts. She nods mutely, taking a deep breath and wrapping her arms around herself. He can tell she's trying to keep him from seeing just how hard her hands are shaking. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it. She swallows hard and tries again.

"W-we should get out of the street." Her voice is barely a whisper, but her back is ramrod straight as she turns around and heads toward the inn. He is surprised yet again by her self-possession until he realizes she's looking at the inn across the street from where they're actually staying. He catches up to her and takes her elbow, gently steering her towards the appropriate building. She doesn't seem to notice.

He takes her directly to their room. She lets him dust her off and take her satchel. Allows him to lead her to a chair. Watches as he kneels and begins to pull off her boots, setting them to the side. She doesn't say a word. He stays there on the floor for a moment, staring up at her with anxious eyes. He can't think of anything to say. He stands, paces, crouches to build a fire, just to give himself something to do. She turns her head and stares blankly out the window.

His mind is playing over and over the conversation he'd had with his brother last week. Had it really only been last week that he was locked in the dungeons while she was attacked, beaten and scared within an inch of her life? He shudders. It seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, it has only been days. The terror he'd seen in her face must've only been a reflection of what she'd felt pinned beneath the Count Vincent. And now, so shortly after the incident, she'd been faced with the same terror again.

There food is delivered and she barely eats any of it. He watches her push the food around on her plate, unable to eat himself. He knows he should ask her to eat, tell her that she needs to keep up her strength, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He wraps the bread and fruit from their meal up in a napkin and stows it away in her satchel, hoping that they'll both be able to stomach it tomorrow.

He's trying to figure out what to do with himself and has resorted to watching her in wary silence from the edge of the bed when she pushes her hair out of her face. Her fingers get stuck in the tangles and he has an idea.

"Here," he says. It's the first word he's spoken since the street and it hangs in the air. He rises slowly, approaches her carefully. "Let me."

She cocks her head slightly, but doesn't protest. With careful fingers, he reaches for the end of her braid and slowly loosens the knot at the end of it. Working slowly, he eases the plait free. She'd left her brush back Louviers when they'd barely escaped the guard, so he has to finger comb the tangles and snarls that have worked their way into her hair throughout the day. Ever so slowly, he feels her relaxing beneath his fingers. It takes him a long time to work out all the knots, but he feels it must be his due penance. He lets himself get lost in the feeling of her hair beneath his fingers.

"I wanted you to kill him." Her voice is like a shadow of itself, hollow. His hands freeze at the sound of it. "I should have let you kill him."

"I wish you'd have let me." He replies with complete honesty, resuming his task with shaking fingers.

"It was different...before." He knows without asking that she's referring to the dead count. "I didn't have time to think. I just...I did what I had to do. But this…" She passes a hand across her eyes.

"This time, I was just lying there thinking, 'Kill him! Kill him now!' I wanted to see him bleed and suffer and die. And then I turned my head for a fraction of a second and saw the look on this child's face. She was watching the whole thing unfold from her front door. And I _realized_ what I was thinking." She buries her face in her hands. "I never thought I could feel that kind of hate." Her voice is muffled by her fingers. Suddenly she turns to face him. "When did I become this-this bloodthirsty _monster_?"

He freezes, takes his hands completely from her and steps away from her. "Do you think I'm a monster then?" His voice is so low, so quiet, he's afraid she hasn't heard it, but can't bare to repeat himself.

She turns around in her chair, looks at him intently. Her face is still drawn, still full of emotions he can't quite place. But her eyes are clear and when she speaks, her voice is perfectly steady and more alive sounding that it has been all night:

"Of course not. How could I possibly?"

"I've killed men before. Many times. And I was willing to, _wanted _to kill that man in the street, no matter who saw. I didn't care."

"But Bash, that's different! Killing in battle! Protecting me! Honorable causes. But this…Bash, I was desperate for you to kill him. For all I know, he was trying to steal from me, not ruin me and I didn't _care_. And I didn't care before either. I just acted. I wasn't sorry. I'm still not sorry."

"You were protecting the people you loved." He enjoys the look on her face when he turns her words back on her. "You were saving yourself! If you hadn't of killed Vincent, he _would_ have killed Francis, not to mention Charles and Henry. You acted like a queen. A hero. A warrior princess. You are _not _a monster."

"But this was different! This was not a desire to protect people. This was murderous hate."

"Which you didn't act on. You didn't have to stop me. You could have let me run that man through and thought nothing of it. But you said it yourself, you realized what you were thinking, what I was about to do, and you adjusted accordingly. If you were a bloodthirsty monster, you would have no conscience, you would not care. You most certainly would not be sitting here, flaying yourself with guilt for something you merely _thought_ in a moment of great fear. There is no shame in protecting yourself. None whatsoever."

Somewhere in the middle of his speech her eyes had filled with tears, and now they are rolling freely down her cheeks. He uses the pads of his thumbs to gently wipe them away.

"No guilt, Mary. Not tonight. Not ever." With her face in his hands, he wishes for the millionth time that her heart were free. Her eyes are searching his and he has to will himself not to drown in them.

When the moment passed he suggested they go to bed and now here he is, sitting with his back to the wall, one knee pulled to his chest, the other leg straight out in front of him. He cannot, will not sleep and has taken up watching her instead. He is comforted by the fact that she fell asleep quite easily, grateful that emotion has begotten exhaustion and that he doesn't have to watch her resist her nightmares. In fact, she is sleeping rather quietly. though he can see her eyes moving beneath their lids and her hands fisting in the sheets. At one point she whimpers, and he's about to cross the room and wake her when she quiets and her breathing returns to normal.

A hour-or maybe it was only a minute-later, she starts awake. He can see the dim light reflected in her eyes and she searches for him around the room. When their eyes meet, she doesn't say a word, just holds his gaze for a long minute. She surprises him by when she smiles before rolling over. In minutes, he hears the now familiar way she breathes when she's sleeping peacefully.

It's not enough for him to be able to fall asleep himself. But he finds that her faith in him is comforting. He is pleased that knowing he is watching over her allows her to sleep easy. And when dawn breaks, he somehow manages to feel rested.


	8. Night Eight

**Author's Note: **This is actually the chapter that made me want to write this whole story. I've had this written since last week and I'm so excited to share it now! I know that I may have taken liberties with the characterization of Francis in this, and I apologize if you honestly can't see him in the role I've created for him. But, in my head, it's something he'd totally do in order to feel superior to Bash. So yeah. Anyway. The Scottish used in this chapter means "my darling" and "pulse of my heart." I don't necessarily intend for them to be used as terms of endearment so much as terms of comfort, Mary drawing back on her very early childhood in order to cope with the situation. You'll see what I mean.

_Night Eight_ or _Comfort and Confessions_

"Bash! Bash! Bash, please!"

_She is calling him. Her voice is frightened. She is covered in blood, clutching the scraps of her white gown to her body. Her voice echoes in his head, so scared, so insistent. He tries to run to her, but his arms are chained to a wall. He is in the dungeon. He can do nothing to help her. She won't stop calling him. He screams in horror, in helplessness. He cannot breathe. He is drowning in her blood._

He wakes with a choking gasp. His heart is pounding, his breath short, his whole body drenched in sweat. He's sitting up, tangled in the blankets that made up his bed on the floor. He casts his gaze wildly about the room, takes in the dying embers of the fire, the lone lit candle on the table, her bare feet, her hands on his arm and shoulder. He looks up at her, still not sure that he's left his dream. Her hair is a cloak around her shoulders, her lovely face a mask of concern, her eyes shining with fear in the dim light.

"Mary." Her name on his lips is a prayer, a talisman, a charm against darkness and evil and fear. When he reaches for her, she doesn't protest, but folds him into her arms, cradling his head on her shoulder. He holds her to him so tightly that he pulls her from the floor next to him onto his lap, and the added height from sitting atop his legs allows the crown of his head to tuck beneath her cheek. One of her hands is in his hair while the other draws circles on his back and she is crooning to him in Gaelic:

"_Mo muirnín. A chuisle mo chroí. _Don't worry, _mo muirnín. _It's alright now, _mo chroí_. Hush, it's alright."

She continues these words over and until they've nearly become a song. They sit like that for a long while. He tries very hard to focus on her breathing, the sound of her voice, the feel of her warm body beneath his hands instead of on the images that are still playing across the insides of his eyelids. After while his breathing slows and his heart beat becomes less erratic.

Ever so slowly, reason comes back to him. First, he realizes that he's holding onto Mary with such force that he must be crushing her ribs, and eases his grip on her. Then it occurs to him that he knows the tune she's half singing, half whispering into the top of his head; that when she came to court as child, she hummed this often. He wonders if he loved her even then. He also realizes that he has her in his lap still, and that this is the most of the shape of her body he's ever felt. Finally, he realizes that he will have to tell her, that perhaps explaining himself will make some sort of a difference to his subconscious.

"It's my fault," he says into her neck, not quite willing to let go of her yet. Her hands don't stop their ministrations, but she stops singing to him.

"You've done nothing wrong, _mo chroí_," she murmurs into the top of his head. He fights the urge to lean into the hand stroking his hair. He wonders momentarily what the Gaelic words she keeps murmuring mean.

"Not me," he admits, "but because of me." Her hands pause on his body, drift to his shoulders so she can look at him squarely.

"Whatever are you talking about?" She's still talking in soothing tones, the way she would with a child. He, surprisingly, doesn't resent it.

"I'm talking about the fact that it's my fault you were accosted by Count Vincent." He feels her stiffen beneath his fingers and she withdraws slowly from the circle of his arms, crawling back to kneel on the blankets next to him. He expects her to look at him like a monster, but she only looks horribly concerned.

"Bash, that simply can't be. Vincent and his men were camped in the woods for weeks waiting for Henry to leave the castle. Why, you were locked in the dungeon when they attacked us! Bash, you're noble to a fault, but you can't possibly blame yourself for that incident."

He closes his eyes, wishing he could let her go on believing this falsehood. But he knows his nightmares will never stop so long as she does. He can only imagine what she'll think of him if his mother's plot is ever exposed and she learns of his role in Vincent's attack secondhand. He braces himself, takes her hands in his, then lets them go, balls his own into fists. Hers hover just over his knees before she realizes he doesn't intend to take them again and drops them into her lap. He braces himself and forces his eyes to meet hers.

"My mother was in contact with Count Vincent," he begins, watching confusion settle over her face. "She has been seeking to have me legitimized, against my will, and thought that if my father had no legitimate heirs, he would be forced to legitimize me." He sees realization begin to dawn in her eyes. "When she found out Vincent was hiding in the woods, she reached out to him. She fed information about my father's plans to Vincent. She orchestrated the entire ordeal in order to make me the dauphin."

"Your mother…" Her voice is faint, her face reacting agonizingly slowly to the truth. It's all he can do to continue to look her in the eye when she finally understands.

"Mary, you have to know that I've never wanted my brother's crown, or his responsibility. I have always been happy with my position. I had no idea what was going on, not till after Vincent and his men were all dead." She closes her eyes, swallows hard. "It's no excuse, I know that. And I know my confession cannot possibly make up for what you had to endure in order to further this foolhardy plot."

He cannot bear that she won't look at him and seizes her hands in his. Her eyes fly open and he's frightened by what he sees in them. Yet, he cannot stop the words from tumbling from his lips.

"It's my fault, Mary. I take full responsibility for my mother's actions. Though I'm certain that she never meant for your or your ladies to be harmed. I don't know what she was thinking. It's pure madness. She should have known that I would have never allowed it if I had known. But she kept it a secret from me and you got hurt and I'm so, so sorry." He feels like all the blood has left his head, like he hasn't taken a breath in minutes. The room starts to go fuzzy around the edges.

"It's not your fault, Bash. Your mother was trying to help you. You've always told me that you never wanted to be Henry's heir." Her voice is far away, as if floating to his ears through a tunnel. He forces himself to take a few deep breathes. She comes back into focus and squeezes his hands gently before putting them back in his lap. "This is why you're running away, isn't it?"

"Catherine found out and threatened my mother with exposure." She nods ever so slightly, as if this is explanation enough. He can't possibly believe that it is and lapses back into apologies, not sure of what to make of her responses, but the guilt is threatening to consume him now that he's laid it all in the open.

"I'm so sorry, Mary. If it weren't for me you never would have been attacked. Never would have been so disgraced and shamed. Never would have been hit or had your clothing torn off or-"

"What are you talking about?" She sounds disoriented, her face a mask again.

"It's alright, Mary, you don't have to hide it from me. Francis told me everything, how your dress had been ripped off of you, how that evil man hit you and left bruises all over your body, and-and-and…" He drifts off, distracted by the emotions that are flying across her face: disbelief, confusion, anger, horror.

"I never said a word to Francis," she whispers, sounding just as lost as before. Then, in a much stronger voice: "What did he tell you?" He stares at her, struggling to comprehend her words. She nearly shrieks at him: "What did he say?"

"He told me that the Count ripped off your clothes until you were scarcely covered. That he hit you. That your body bore bruises from where his hands held you too tightly. That your head broke a plate when he slammed you onto the table in the Great Hall. That the only reason you escaped with your honor was because Francis burst through the doors and you took the opportunity to stab the Count with a fork while he was distracted. That-"

"Stop."

He closes his mouth immediately, watching her face for a clue as to what's going on inside her head. She stares at the ground in deep concentration, her brow furrowing, her mouth forming the shapes of words without actually making a sound. When she finally raises her eyes to meet his, there is a steely determination in them.

"You have been terribly misinformed, Bash," she begins slowly, "while the Count's intention was most certainly to ruin me, he never had the opportunity to get that far. My dress never came off, he never hit me, my body bore no bruises, and the royal china is still intact. _Catherine_ distracted him and I did stab him with a fork, but Francis wasn't there until after. He _lied t_o you, Bash, I don't know why."

"Mary, I'm sure that-"

"Don't!" she whispers fiercely. "Don't you defend him! I've watched you battle your nightmares these past nights, wondering what you were dreaming of that could possibly have frightened you so. And tonight, you were so violently affected, you cried out in your sleep, Bash! And then I find out you've been harboring this guilt over something that didn't happen, over something that you perceived was your fault, even though you had nothing to do with it…"

She trails off, looks at him with an altogether different sort of fierceness than what colored her voice a minute earlier. She leans forward and takes his face in her hands. They are trembling and his raises his own to cover hers. When she speaks, her voice is steadier than it's been all night and full of conviction:

"Know this, Sebastian de Poitiers: what happened to me was not your fault. Not one bit. No matter what misplaced guilt and malicious lies say. You have no right to feel guilty. None whatsoever. You have never done anything but protect me and honor me and cherish me."

Her words hang in the air between them. Their resemblance to wedding vows is a tangible thing that they can both feel. He cannot speak. The desire to kiss her is a physical pain. The need to crush her body to his is a white hot fire that rushes through his veins. A shout of mingled joy and horror fills his throat. But he cannot move.

She lowers her hands from his face, but allows him to continue to hold them. Her eyes are searching his, trying to discern meaning from the storm in his soul that is reflected in their depths. Something has changed between them and they both know it, but neither one of them is willing to say it. After what could have been a lifetime or a single moment, she, as always, is the first to move.

"We should sleep," she whispers, her voice is trembling again. She stands and crosses the room on featherlight feet, dousing the light and pulling the blankets over her head before he can fully process what's happening. He hasn't said a word, but his heart feels like it will explode out of his chest. He wonders if she can hear it from across the room.

Eventually, he manages shake himself out of the moment enough to move and forces his body to lay down. He tries to relax and fails. He tries to think about everything, anything else and fails. He settles for laying wide awake in the dark, listening to her breathing. He can tell that she's not asleep either, but doesn't trust his voice not to shout to the moon how much he loves her if he opens his mouth to speak to her. He rolls away from her, stares at the dying embers of the fire until they completely extinguish themselves. For the second day in a row, he is awake when the sun begins to rise. And for the second day in a row, he does not feel the lack of sleep.


	9. Night Nine

**Author's Note: **So...this is it. And while it really bothers me that there are an odd number of chapters, I've run out of places for them to go. Also, I'm really distracted by being incredibly nervous about the March 6th episode, and would probably write nothing but drivel from this point on. Thanks and whatnot are at the bottom, but I'll say it here too: Thank you so much for reading this! I am so floored by the response to this fic and so pleased to be a part of the Mash community! I love you!

_Night Nine_ or _Caught_

_"I jumped off a cliff with you and I survived. This time let me take the lead." _

He cannot argue with her because he's being forcibly dragged away from her, fighting every step with every ounce of his strength. He curses them, curses himself, curses God. He feels like an idiot for not sleeping the night before, for not taking a different road, for being stupid enough to take off his sword, for selecting _this_ inn. Fear for her, for Francis, for himself coils in his belly like a snake and makes his head throb.

She darts back into the room and he thinks for a moment that she has actually listened to him. When she reappears in the doorway, she's got her habit back on, and a pile of his clothes beneath one arm. He sees the expression on her face and stops fighting. He's in too much shock. She is beyond furious, that much he can tell. But he's never seen her look this way before. It's like witnessing the deadly calm before an ice storm or a hurricane.

"Stop!" Her voice has assumed an authority that he's never heard before. There is something cold and deadly about the power in it. And his father's men listen, all pausing as a unit, though their grip on him doesn't lessen. She stands tall, and even though her clothes are wet and wrinkled and her hair is a windblown tangle of knots about her face, she is radiant with power. She approaches them slowly, a lioness stalking her prey.

"Wouldn't it be a shame," she begins, her voice low and crisp at the same time, "if your charge froze to death before you were able to deliver him?" She stops in front of the ringleader, a man he knows by sight but not by name. "I can see King Henry being absolutely," she leans in, hisses the next word in the man's face, "_infuriated_ by being robbed of the ability to kill his bastard himself. Not to mention the Dauphin's anger."

She drops his frockcoat and boots at the man's feet. "And if you don't find that enough to inspire fear in your wretched heart, then please do consider this: _I_ have learned a thing or two from Catherine de Medici and if Sebastian De Poitiers so much as stubs his toe on our way back to Court, I will have you killed and I will ensure that it is _not _a quick death. And then before your body has cooled and the priests have come to say last rites over it, I will send riders to your village and have your homes burned to the ground and your field salted so that your line will never eat again. _Am I clear_?"

They are standing nose to nose and she will not back down. It is apparent in every line of her face that she will follow through with everything she's just said. The guard does not like it, but he believes her and is the first to look away, bowing his head in acquiescence. She watches with cold eyes as he stoops to pick up the pile in front of him before and toss it at the man holding Bash's arm. He shrugs on his coat and pulls on his boots with two swords pointed at him while she watches.

"Is your Grace satisfied?"

"Not in the slightest." Her eyes flash with cold light. "You may not recall, but we were forced to take a bit of a swim earlier, and I'm afraid our clothing is not quite dry. It will chill us both terribly if we are forced to ride without some sort of added protection." She cocks her head ever so slightly and smiles a smile completely void of warmth. "I believe your cape will suffice for Lord Sebastian and yours," she points to the man who's resumed a tight grip on his arm, "will do for me."

The man holding his arm begins to protest, but she cuts him off. "It is an _honor _to serve the Queen of Scots who shall be most put out if you do not do exactly as she says."

After that, they comply immediately, if not begrudgingly. And while he is grateful for the additional warmth, he is not comforted by the look in the man's eye when he's handed the cape.

"No more talk. We ride _now_." The ringleader orders and Mary has the good sense not to question him.

They are marched outside where horses are waiting and saddled. The cold, the buffeted by the cape, still bites through his clothes and he can see her shivering already out of the corner of his eye. He isn't surprised to see enough horses for all of them, himself and Mary included, although he is surprised by the foresight this lot had in bringing their abandoned animals along. His mount whinnies at the sight of him. In other circumstances, he would've been glad to see his horse again, but knowing what the animal would be carrying him towards made him less than enthusiastic about the creature's presence.

He mounts his horse with a sword pointed at his throat. Once he's in his seat, his hands are tied to the pommel, his feet to the stirrups, and his horse is put on a lead that's wrapped around a guard's wrist. He contemplates escape, knows that if he can somehow manage to get a hold of a sword, they might stand a chance. But the ringleader has had a single brilliant idea. He pauses next to Bash's horse and says in words too low for anyone else to hear:

"I don't care if she is Queen of Scots, you try anything funny and I will kill her."

Without thinking about it, he surges forward, as if to tackle the idiot from his horse, but his bonds hold firm, anchoring him in place. She sees the exchange from atop her own horse and drops her queenly expression to shoot him a concerned look. He presses his lips into a hard line and shakes his head. The idiot ringleader moves so his horse is between theirs and they begin their ride.

He calculates their journey in his head to distract himself from killing all of them. They are in Montreuil now, over one hundred and fifty miles from Fontainebleau. Even though these are fine horses, and even if they stick to the main roads and ride through the night, they may only make it as far as Paris before dawn. But then he notices that instead of five guards, there are only four, and realizes that much earlier one was sent ahead. There will be fresh horses waiting for them at every town, enabling them to ride miles more tonight. With a sinking stomach, he realizes they will be at Fontainebleau before noon tomorrow.

The guards do not surprise him again. The ride is ferociously fast, even compared to the speed they have been traveling at for the last week. But with the promise of fresh horses and the ability to travel without caring about attracting attention, the miles fly by. He clothes dry quickly, buffered by the cold air, leaving him chilled to the bone. It's only the warmth of his horse that allows him to have any feeling in his legs and his hands go completely numb. He fears for her, hopes that the lies he's told about her delicate constitution do not become reality. He looks at her whenever he can, catches her looking at him just as often.

If he was impressed with her stamina and endurance before, he wants to worship her now. He knows she is as exhausted as he is, as cold as he is, as hungry as he is, and not nearly as accustomed to these things as he is. Yet she doesn't balk when the ringleader shouts to pick up the pace. She doesn't fall when she dismounts as their first stop, even though he knows her legs must be dead from the cold. She doesn't even cringe when she immediately has to mount a new horse. She handles the new horse with ease, even though it is unfamiliar and bigger than what she's used to. The ringleader keeps making it more difficult, riding them harder, making their rest stops faster and more infrequent. Perhaps it is in hopes that she will have to fall behind, or that he will snap and give the man an excuse to kill her, but she doesn't let the brute have that luxury. She meets every challenge with a curt nod and a grim face.

As the miles pass, he watches her building the walls around her heart, the physical process showing on her face. First her chin, held high and proud. Then her mouth, drawn into a tight, thin line that shows the way she has set her jaw. Finally, her eyes go. They stare straight ahead, her attention to the space between her horse's ears unwavering. The next time she looks over at him, he sees that they have gone completely dead.

The sunrises when they are on the outskirts of Paris. They stop to switch horses for the final leg of the journey. He barely recognizes the girl who dismounts from her horse. He face is a complete mask: stiff, regal, glacial. Looking at her now makes him feel like the sun has imploded, like the whole world has turned to ice. He knows why she's doing this, knows that she has to protect herself in order to protect Francis.

This knowledge, however, doesn't keep him from wanting to pull her into his arms and never let her go. The pull is so powerful that his legs actually start to move towards her, causing his warden to draw his sword. It is only when he feels the cold blade against his throat that he realizes what he's doing. He forces himself to stop. To breathe. To look for _his_ Mary in that face.

She sees the exchange and the mask drops from place so quickly he can all but see it smash to the ground. He is gratified by the instantaneous fear and anger he sees in her eyes. And then he is horrified by how quickly she is able to put the mask back in place once she realizes he is alright. He begins to wonder if he'll see her smile again before his father kills him.

They arrive at Fontainebleau far too soon. They don't bother going to the stables first, but ride through the courtyard and right up to the huge wooden doors. They are met by more guards and he is handed off to them. But she has managed to place her horse between them and the door. When she dismounts, she stumbles, falls to her hands and knees. Before anyone can react, he's wretched himself out of the guard's hands and is on his knees next to her. He wraps one hand around her shoulder and cups her face in the other. When their eyes meet all the walls in her eyes fall down and she begins shaking all over. He knows it's not from exhaustion or cold.

"It will be alright. Everything will be alright." His words are coloured by the way her fear has unnerved him, even though he wants to be strong.

She places her hand over the one of his that's cupping her cheek. "If it were just me, yes. But I'm afraid of what Henry will do to you. Of what Francis-"

Her words are cut off by the guards hauling him off the ground and away from her. Over his shoulder, he sees another guard offering her his hand, but she ignores it. When she's pulled herself onto her feet again, he sees the walls building themselves back up in the absolute straightness of her spine, in the way she's holding her chin. But there's something in her eyes that tells him she's not as strong as her posture conveys.

_"The king wants him taken to the dungeon." The ringleader barks as they lead him through the doors. She's just behind them, struggling to put the last building blocks in place, but they haven't reached her eyes, which are trained on him in such a way that he's equal parts horrified and exhilarated._

_"I'll be fine," he tries to reassure her as the guards pull him away. He tries to encourage her, tries to pour strength into her eyes with his. "Be strong. You have to!" _

And then y'all know what happens from that point on, so:

_Fin_

Thank you to everyone who read this and took the time to review. Again, I can't emphasize enough how wonderful it is to belong to a fandom where people are so supportive and lovely about fanfiction. We Mashers belong to an AMAZING community. Also, thanks to all of you who kept reading, even though you didn't review. I was so encouraged to see the numbers remain consistent throughout the story, even if I didn't get the opportunity to talk to you, thanks for sticking with me to the end. Actually, thank you ALL for sticking with me through to the end!

Special thanks for chrisrose and Bashful Masher for your support and for letting me gush _Reign_ all day long. You two are amazing! :)


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